A/N: Soooo … I've been poking at this idea randomly on and off for a while now. I give you the short prologue here, and will probably post the next chapter this weekend.

So, in celebration of the completion of the Dead Pan Contest, here's just a bit of spoofin' fun … will probably round out at about 5 chapters.

By the way, the polls for the contest closed tonight, and we will be announcing the results on the 15th. Thank you so, so much to all who participated for this amazing contest!

Enjoy :)

1967

Somewhere in London

{Cue happy, bouncy '60s pop music}

Eric Northman rounds the corner, with a squealing gaggle of girls nipping at his heels. His eyes dart from left to right, desperately searching for an escape, lighting up when he spots the red Corvette pulling up just a few feet away. He zooms over with vampire speed and arrives beside the car just in time to jump into it before it speeds away. The mob of crazed girls is left standing there, utterly confused as to how the object of their stalking obsession has seemingly just disappeared into thin air.

"Hello, Mrs. Stackhouse," Eric purrs as his eyes drink in the delicious sight and scent of Adele Stackhouse, blond movie-star glamour waves blowing behind her as she speeds up, while pointedly ignoring the obviously fake projection of a 1960's London behind her.

"Hello, Eric." Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second before they are interrupted by the incessant high-pitched noise of a phone ringing. "That'll be Pam, Chief of the International Vampire League."

"Righty-o."

Mrs. Stackhouse laughs hysterically. "Oh, Eric. You know you sound absolutely ridiculous when you try to pull off English slang. God, I swear there's nothing worse than a fake English accent," she says with an eye roll.

Eric glares at his partner for a brief moment before turning to answer the call.

"Hello, Eric," Pam's low, monotonous tone drones out from screen of the now-revealed stowaway picture phone. "This is Pamela Ravenscroft, Chief of the International Vampire League. You're Eric Northman, International Man of Mystery, and you're with Agent Mrs. Stackhouse. The year is 1967—"

"Yeah, Pam. We already know all of that," Eric interrupts the Chief.

"Yes, well—I just wanted to be extremely clear so that everyone knows what's going on. Moving on then. We've just received word that Reverend Evil, has set a trap for you tonight at the Electric Psychedelic Pussycat Swinger's Club here in swinging London."

"Okay, Chief. We're on it."

"Good luck, Eric."

"Thank you."

"Oh, and Eric?"

"Yes?"

{Insert overly-dramatic pause}

"Be careful."

"Thank you," as the screen fades to black, Eric turns to Mrs. Stackhouse with a fangy grin. "Let's go, baby!"

The Electric Psychedelic Pussycat Swinger's Club

Eric is a bit distracted by the zoo of freaks inside, but Agent Mrs. Stackhouse does what she's best at: keeping him and his insatiable libido in check.

"Come on, Eric. We've got to find Reverend Evil!"

Eric shakes it off, and is about to follow her when something catches his eye. "Wait!"

He punches a cute mod girl, knocking her flat on her back.

The crowd parts and hisses.

"Eric!" Mrs. Stackhouse gasps. "Why in God's name did you strike that woman?"

"That ain't no woman! It's a Were!" The camera zooms in just as Eric turns to it, punctuating his wild accusation with an epic cocking of a brow before turning back to Mrs. Stackhouse. "And one of Reverend Evil's assassins."

Eric pulls off the girl's wig at the same time as she transforms into a hyena. She pounces for Mrs. Stackhouse with a crazy, manic laughter, but Eric jumps on her, getting the thing in a headlock and snapping its neck. The fur quickly disappears, leaving Eric sprawled on the floor with a now-naked would-be assassin, choking out her last breath.

He gets into her crumpled, horror-stricken face. "Where is Reverend Evil?"

The camera cuts to a hand clutched around a spear gun. Leaning over his perch, the gunman's snazzy white suit is set off against the darkness that surrounds him. The golden twinkle of a pinky ring embossed with the letter E catches the light just before the trigger is pulled.

The spear sinks into the assassin's chest. She gasps out her last breath, her body immediately going lax in Eric's arms.

Eric whips his head up in the direction the spear had come from. The crowd follows in unison, creating a whooshing sound that would later be part of every respectable sound engineer's repertoire.

Reverend Evil uses the distraction to make his escape.

{Cue dizzying chase music}

By the time the agents catch up to him, Reverend Evil is buckling himself into a futuristic-looking egg-shaped chair.

"I've got you again, Reverend Evil!" Eric proclaims with confidence.

But Reverend Evil just smirks and the chair is instantly flooded with a cloud of white mist. Reverend Evil's slim body and trademark gravity-defying pompadour is immediately swallowed up by the mist as he answers, "Not this time, Northman. Go, Mr. Tiggersworth! Make your daddy proud!"

Out of the mist, an enormous tiger leaps out, knocking Eric to the ground before it bounds away. Eric props himself up on a forearm as Reverend Evil's taunt travels from behind the ever-thickening mist. "See you in the future, blood-suckah!"

Eric jumps to his feet as Reverend Evil's maniacal cackles echo all around them. The doors to the escape hatch close, revealing attractive white lettering that complement the stainless steel of the contraption rather nicely. They spell out:

CRYOGENIC FREEZING BEGINNING

"Jesus Christ, Shepherd of Judea!" Mrs. Stackhouse gasps, clapping a hand to her mouth. "He's freezing himself."

Eric chuckles as he pulls out his gun. "Oh, how I do enjoy your charming American colloquialisms, Mrs. Stackhouse."

The room is filled with the sounds of gunshots as both agents' utterly futile attempts to make a dent in the escape hatch fail miserably; the bullets simply bounce off the contraption uselessly. The ceiling opens and the steel egg takes off into the night.

The teeming street outside grinds to a halt as all faces lift to the sky, watching with gaping mouths and pointing, disbelieving fingers as the Bob's Big Boy disengages itself from the building and shoots off into the sky.

Somewhere just outside the earth's atmosphere

Reverend Evil folds in on himself, his whole body trembling violently. His hair, always a marvel of deft styling and hair product, has collapsed in on itself as well. It is impossible to tell if his quaking is caused by the freezing process, or the overwhelming emotions of rage and humiliation caused by yet another defeat. Perhaps it's all of the above. He narrows his eyes, pushing back the emo tears.

Everyone knows real villains don't cry.

"I'll be back, Mr. Northman," he vows through blue, shivering lips. "When free love is dead, and greed and avarice once again rule the world. See how far your good looks, irresistible charm and unrivaled sexual prowess will get you then!"

Fade to black

A/N: Hope you had as many gigglesnorts as I did writing it ;D

A/N: Thank you to my bestie beta nycsnowbird for lending me her talented hawk eyes.

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine.